


Any Given Low

by ienablu



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Drinking, Episode: s01e05 The Iron Ceiling, F/M, One-Sided Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-17 17:28:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3537938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ienablu/pseuds/ienablu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the sidewalk down a block from the bar, Agent Thompson tries to kiss Peggy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Any Given Low

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to confabulatrix for cheer/betaing at the end.

The Griffith has a 10 o’clock curfew, and Peggy is running out of alternative entrances.

But the night had been pleasant – she, Agent Thompson and Agent Ramirez had headed down to the bar just a block east of the office, and had met Agent Wallace there. Wallace had heard through the grapevine about Russia, but Ramirez got enthusiastic when he was drunk, and soon Ramirez and Wallace were talking to her; they asked about her time in the war, her time in the SSR then, her time with ‘the Cap,’ her time with the Howling Commandos, her time with the SSR now.

For the first time in as long as Peggy could remember, they were talking to her, their attention was solely on her, they were genuinely interested in what she had to say. She glossed over joining the wartime effort and fighting to enlist with the SSR; her early days in the SSR with Abraham and Howard. Instead, she jumped straight to the way, talking about Dum Dum and James, Jim and Jacques, Gabe, Bucky. The bourbon made it easier to talk about Steve. She gave them thrilling accounts from Russia, Germany, France.

For her time with the SSR, she regaled them with a thrilling account of the time she perfected the most efficient way to brew coffee.

It garnered a few chuckles.

“Next time,” Wallace said, gesturing towards her with an outstretched finger, the rest of his hand wrapped around his third drink of the night, “we’ve got a down minute, make sure to teach that to a junior agent, so we can have you if a call comes in.”

The implicit invitation – the undercurrent that she had finally joined their ranks – warmed her in a way the bourbon hadn’t.

“Yauch?” Jack suggested.

Ramirez and Wallace laughed, and Peggy joined them. 

Conversation turned away from Peggy, as the other agents started trading stories. Time in the war, time with the SSR.

When questions turned to Jack and his time in Japan, Peggy found ways to carefully talk around them, rephrasing questions to give him an out. The look he gave her was blindingly grateful, she wondered how Ramirez and Wallace missed it.

The night wore on. Ramirez left first, grabbing his hat and the bill on the way out.

Jack ordered another round of drinks. In doing so he said something that reminded Wallace of Dooley, the conversation fell to Wallace recalling getting on Dooley’s bad side on a case. Aside from an offhand comment of bringing him cold coffee, Peggy stayed quiet while they shared stories of getting on Dooley’s bad side.

Wallace finished off his third drink, and pushed himself to his feet. He looked at Jack, nodded, and looked at Peggy, nodded again. “See ya tomorrow.”

“Bright and early,” Jack added.

Wallace huffed a laugh. “Here’s hoping.”

They watched him go, and Peggy had sighed, pushed herself to her feet. “I should really get going as well.”

"One more drink," Jack had said. He was looking up at her the same he had been when he asked her to come out drinking in the first place. Considering her. Approving her. "On me. For saving me back there."

"I only did what any agent would," Peggy told him, but she sat back down.

They kept talking, and now it is quarter until ten, and Peggy needs to get going. She stands up, and takes a moment to be grateful that she switched to water after Jack's drink.

He had not, and it becomes evident when he stands up, and starts towards the bartender. He fumbles with the bills.

"Jack," Peggy says, as he stumbles back over to her. "How many drinks have you had?"

"'m fine," he replies, which is not an answer to her question.

Peggy assesses the glasses on the tables, counts the glasses that had been cleared away. Even with Ramirez and Wallace, they add up. Jack’s an SSR agent, he could take care of himself, were he to run into any trouble on his way home. But Ray’s death still lingers in her thoughts. "Which way do you live?" she asks, as she gathers her coat.

He's pulling on his jacket, and dropping his hat on his head. It falls on a jaunty angle, and he gives her a similar smile. "Just another few blocks west."

"I'll walk you," Peggy says. The Griffith is only one block west from here, and another few blocks north, but she is concerned with Jack's level of inebriation. He is halfway to the door, and not one step had followed the other in any sort of straight line.

He turns to look at her. "You don't have to if you don't want to."

"I want to see you home safe, Jack," she tells him, as she walks past him to the door, and pulls it open.

Even with her coat and the lingering warmth from her drinks, the mid-April air chills her. She wants to wrap her arms around herself, but Jack continues to weave his way down the sidewalk. A few quick steps catches her back up to him. He sways, and she wraps an arm around his waist. "Here," she says, matching his stride.

He smiles down at her, and slings his arm around her shoulders, pulling her in closer to him.

She stumbles her next step, crashing into him momentarily. There's still enough of the bourbon in her that she lets out a breathless laugh. "Sorry," she says, straightening back up. “I lost my balance.”

"You should smile more," he tells her. "Cheer up, Peggy."

"It seems you have enough cheer to sustain us both for the rest of the night."

"Seems so," he agrees.

They come to the edge of the block, and Peggy slows to a stop. Jack seems intent on crossing the street without looking, and so Peggy pulls him back, fingers digging into his side. "Jack," she says.

He takes the step back, half-turning in to her. "Yes?" he asks.

Peggy feels him brush his a finger along the curl of her hair.

In the orange light of the streetlamp, the intoxication of the bourbon is starting to wear off, as is the novelty of winning Jack's respect. He has had far too much to drink; no longer is he the golden poster boy of the SSR, but a drunken veteran, falsely awarded for his cowardice and dishonesty. In this late hour – ten minutes before ten – his actions and non-actions taste sour. She can only imagine how ill they must sit with Thompson, despite the inebriated smile on his face.

“Jack,” Peggy says, keeping her voice light. Disgust burns like bile as she reexamines tonight; perhaps she had misjudged the foundation for his consideration. “I once punched Howard Stark into a river for trying to kiss me.”

He stares down at her. “You two never really…”

_Fondued_ , Peggy’s mind fills in. There’s a pang of sorrow at the memory, and a pang of amusement. It’s a bittersweet memory, and one she cherishes. But this memory does not belong here, in the uneasy air between her and Jack. She stows the memory away, to reminisce upon later. She keeps her expression neutral as she says, “That is what I have been saying, had any of you cared to listen.”

The street is clear, and Peggy wastes no time in stepping away from Jack, planting her hand firmly on his back, and marching him across the street.

Jack stumbles with the step back up onto the sidewalk, but Peggy manages to keep him steady another few sidewalk squares. However, the toe of his boot catches a crack in the sidewalk, and he stumbles. She moves to keep him steady; but in doing so she pulls against him, and his off-balance momentum carries them to the brick wall of a bakery. Jack raises his left arm up to brace against the brick, his right arm still around Peggy’s shoulders.

Peggy pulls down her arm from around his waist.

Jack does not pull back from her.

Peggy’s heartbeat picks up. She has worked hard to earn the respect of her fellow agents, to maintain respect for herself. She will do what needs to be done to maintain the latter, and it burns her that Jack is inches away from destroying the former. “Jack,” she says, into the thin air between them. “This is not a good idea.”

“C’mon, Pegs,” Jack replies. His head is angled towards hers, his eyes half-lidded. His expression is the one he’s had all night; like he sees her, for the first time, and appreciates her. Only now in the tilt of his head and the half-lid of his eyes, she sees that he wants her, too.

She does not want him. “Step back, Jack,” she tells him.

His gaze flicks up from her lips. He gives her a faint smile. “Or you’ll clock me like you clocked Stark.”

“Yes.”

“You weren’t kidding.”

“No, Agent Thompson,” Peggy says, voice tight. “When a woman states her boundaries and the consequences of not respecting them, she tends to be quite serious.”

“What if I had a shield?”

Peggy inhales sharply. A flash of hurt sears her, but after that, anger quickens her heartbeat. With every angry thump of her heart, she reads a new meaning into the question. There is no meaning she likes. She wants to keep Steve safe, and that entails keeping his memory safe from being dragged into ugly moments such as this. Very calmly, she says, “Then I would not have to tell you twice. Step _back_ , Jack.”

Disappointment flashes over his face. 

He pulls her in closer, presses in closer, and Peggy tenses, _ready_ ; but then his arm is dropping away from behind her, and he’s pushing himself back from the wall, taking two measured steps back.

Peggy can’t contain her breath of relief, and his expression is hurt in response. Her back against the wall, she can’t find sympathy for him.

He turns, stumbling on his next two steps.

A moment passes, and another. She takes a deep, steadying breath, and pushes herself back from the wall. She takes a moment to catch back up with Jack. She steps in close enough where she could right him if needed, but she does not seek out to reach him.

They walk the rest of the block in silence.

Jack starts up the stoop of an apartment building.

“Will you be alright, Agent Thompson?” she asks, as she watches him miss the keyhole three times.

He shakes his head. “You don’t need to worry about me, Carter.”

“That wasn’t an answer to my question.”

The key finally slots into the lock, and then he’s twisting the key, twisting the knob. The door drifts open, and he shuffles forward with it.

“ _Jack_.”

He turns, smiles at her. His voice is soft as he says, “G’night, Peggy.”

The door snaps shut behind him, the lock clicking into place.

It’s a ten-minute walk back to the Griffith.

The fire escape, tonight, Peggy decides.


End file.
